




-o 



a 



EGEJID Op 
TMIIiffl 



& \ 




ND 

THER PO 



* 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.... \.1 Copyright No. ... 

Shell. Jb-^L^ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Legend of the Trailing Arbutus 



AND 



OTHER POEMS, 



BY 



Ralph H. Shaw, 

A uthov of '' In Many Moods.''' 



Loweu,, Mass. 
1898. 






Copyright, 1898, 
By Ralph H. Shaw. 

All rights reserved. 




TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 



Press of Mclndoe-Butterfield Co. 



2m ^O." 
1898. 






CONTENTS. 



Narrative and Legendary : 

Legend of the Trailing Arbutus 
The Gift of Katahdin .... 
The Legend of Indian Corn . . 
Glooskap and Malsum .... 
The Mournful Mystery of the 

Partridge- Witch 

The Cry of the Loon .... 

Weelahka 

The Legend of the Fringed Gen- 

tian 

The Challenge and the Answer . 

Lyrical : 

Again 

The Wakening 

The Wood Thrush 

Willette 

Oh, Tell Me i 

In the Shadow 

Let's Go a-Mayiug 

Association 

Among the Daisies 

We Were Playmates ..... 



Portland Transcript . . 
Portland Transcript . . 
New England Magazine 



Port la n d Tra n scrip t 
New York Ledger 
Portland Transcript 

Nickell Magazine . 
The Housewife . . 



New York Ledger . 
Good Housekeeping 
New York Ledger . 
Good Housekeeping 
Ladies' World . . 
New York Ledger . 
New York Ledger . 
The Household . . 
The Ladies' World 
Good Housekeeping 



Page. 

3 

7 
ii 

T4 



23 

31 
33 

35 
37 



39 

4i 
42 

43 
44 
46 

47 
49 
50 
5i 



Sonnets : 

My Father 

Addie Frances Shaw 
First Speech .... 
April 26, 1895 . . . . 
To Benjamin F. L,eggett 
To Pastor Felix . . . 



Miscellaneous : 

The Stopping of the Stage 
From the Hill .... 

Luxuries 

Two Nature Covers . . 
Our L^oved Ones . . . 

To a Boy 

Untenanted 

L,ake Squam .... 
My L,ady Birch . . . 
Impressions of Sunset . 
The Bonny Doon ... 
At the Tower of Fontenay 

Ashhurst 

The Wayside Kims . . 
A Moment of Sunshine 
The Dandelion .... 
We Come to Give These 

Children 

In Memoriam .... 
The Afterthought . . . 
The Farmer's Daughter 
A Summer Incident . . 
The Country Stage Driver 
Joe of Katahdin . . . 

Burns 

Wise and Testy . . . 
John Shaw 



Ivittle 



Portland Transcript 
Portland Transcript 
The Housewife . . 
New York Ledger 
Portland Transcript 
Dominion Illustrated 



Good Housekeeping . 
New York Independent 
Portland Transcript 
Portland Transcript 
Portland Transcript 
Portland Transcript 
Portland Transcript 
Portland Transcript 
The Cottage Hearth 
Portland Transcript 
New York Ledger 
New York Ledger 
Portland Transcript 
Portland Transcript 
New York Ledger 
New York Ledger 

Lowell Mail . . . 



Page. 
53 
54 
55 
56 
57 
58 



New York Ledger 
The Housewife . . 
New York Ledger 
New York Ledger 
New York Ledger 
Dominion Illustrated 



Portland Transcript 



LEGENDARY AND NARRATIVE. 



LEGEND OF THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 



Do not reason, for you may 
Reason all the charm away. 



Many, many moons ago, 
Lived an old man all alone ; 

In a wood that none may know, 
By a stream as hard as stone. 

Long and white was all his hair ; 

Heavy were the robes he wore ; 
Snow and ice were everywhere ; 

All the world to him was hoar. 

Dark the night and wild the wind, 
Wild the wind that roared amain, 

When he searched the wood to find 
Fuel for his fire in vain ; 

Sadly to his lodge returned ; 

Sat his last few embers by, 
Bowed and prayed as low they burned 

That with them he might not die. 



"Mannaboosho! thou art good; 

Mannaboosho ! I am old ; 
Mannaboosho, give me wood, 

Lest I perish from the cold ! " 

Thus he sat and thus he prayed, 
When his door was blown aside, 

And a maiden, unafraid, 

Sought his presence, sunny-eyed. 

In she came with dancing feet, 
And she wore, to his delight, 

Robes of ferns and grasses sweet, 
Moccasins of lilies white. 

Roses red were in her hair ; 

Willow-buds were in her hands; 
Soon she gave the lodge the air, 

Warmth and bloom of sunny lands. 

"Welcome to my ashy fire! 

Tell me, daughter, who you are, 
That you have in such attire 

Borne the biting cold so far. 

"Sit beside me, very near, 
Tell me all that I would know ; 

Of my wonders you shall hear, — 
What is done by Manito." 



"When I breathe," the maiden said, 
"Spring the flowers on the plains; 
When I shake my curly head, 
Fall the warm and gentle rains." 

" When I breathe," the old man said, 

1 ' All the rivers cease to flow ; 
When I shake my hoary head, 
Falls the bleak and blinding snow." 

"When I roam," the maiden said, 
"Light and lush the leaves come out; 

Blithe the birds sing overhead ; 
All the rivers laugh and shout." 

"When I roam," the old man said, 
" Blow the leaves about the sky ; 
Like an arrow overhead, 
All the wild-geese from me fly." 

While they talked the lodge grew warm ; 

Wide awake he could not keep ; 
Soon he stretched his heavy form, 

Bowed his head, and fell asleep. 

On the lodge the sunshine fell ; 

O'er the lodge the bluebird cheeped ; 
Soon the springs began to well, 

Soon the river laughed and leaped. 



L,ow the maiden as he lay 
Bent and breathed his body o'er; 

Saw it sink and fall away, 

Melt from out the robes he wore ; 

Saw the robes — with keen delight — 
Turn to leaves of living green ; 

Then she knelt, and flowers white 
Fondly hid the leaves between. 

" Precious flowers, unto you, 

Give I all my purity ; 
Who would pick you, so must do 

Humbly and on bended knee." 

This she said, and moved away 

Through the woods, by hill and dell 

IvO ! the arbutus to-day 

Trails where'er her footsteps fell. 



[I came across this legend in a newspaper abstract of a 
paper read by the Hon. C. K- Belknap of Michigan, before 
the American Folklore Society, at a meeting held in Wash- 
ington, D. C. This gentleman said: " On the south shore of 
Ivake Superior, in the vicinity of the Pictured Rocks, grows 
to perfection that dearest and sweetest of all wild flowers, 
the arbutus. The plant that the most skilful florist, the 
plant that the tender, loving touch of woman even, cannot 
cause to grow in hot-house or garden. And this is the 
legend as told me of the origin or creation of the arbutus." 
I^ongfellow in " Hiawatha " has presented another version 
of this Chippewa legend. In his version there is reference 
to the overcoming of Winter by Spring, not to the creation 
of the arbutus, of which nothing is said. The only flower 
mentioned is the spring-beauty, or Claytonia Virginica, 
called by the Chippewas Miskodeed. The legend bears 
strong resemblance to the Passamaquoddy legend of the 
conflict between Heat and Cold, or Spring and Winter. 
Indeed, Mr. Iceland is of the opinion that the Passama- 
quoddy is a " completer form " of the Chippewa.] 



THE GIFT OF KATAHDIN. 



AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND. 



Ivong ago, an Indian maiden, 
On Katahdin, said : 
"Would I that I had a husband — 
Better to be wed ! " 

And beholding how Katahdin 
Rose in majesty : 
" O, that human were Katahdin, 
And would marry me ! " 

Then she wandered on and upward, 
And was seen no more 
Till had passed the circling seasons 
Thrice Katahdin o'er ; 

When she came among her people, 
Where she yet was known, 
With a little child, but listen ! 
One whose brows were stone. 



Now the Spirit of Katahdin 

Had this maiden wed, 

And when she would seek her people, 

"Go in peace," he said; 

"Go, and tell them they are never 
To inquire of thee 
Who the father of thy child is — 
All his brows may see. 

"He will have the god-like power 
To direct and lead, 
To provide for all his people, 
Great in thought and deed ; 

"But to them most dire ever 

Shall be all events, 

If they grieve thee with rude questions, 

With impertinence. 

"They will surely know his father, 
When his brows they see ; 
So, for asking who his father, 
There no need will be." 

Now, when she had sought her people, 
They were straightway told 
Not to ask the idle question, 
But their peace to hold. 

8 



Soon they saw the child had powers 
Far beyond their head ; 
That he was a great magician, 
All the wise men said ; 

For if he but aimed his ringer, 
Moose and wild duck fell, 
And through him, whate'er the season, 
Lived his people well. 

But, alas ! for all their feasting, 
They would ask her what 
They had been forbade to ask her ; 
Said they this and that; 

Till the maiden, angered hearing 
How their tongues would run, 
Answered : ' ' Truly, you are nowise 
Worthy of my son. 

" Fools, who kill yourselves by folly ; 
Mud-wasps, — worse than fools, — 
Stinging fingers that would save you 
From the fatal pools, — 

" Why insist that I should tell you 
What you have been told? 
Surely, you must know his father, 
Who his brows behold. 



"By the Spirit of Katahdin 
Came this child to be ; 
But it shall be to your sorrow 
That you questioned me. 

"Hence, this child no more shall serve you; 

You, yourselves may feed ; 

Many hence will be your hardships, 

Sore will be your need." 

Then she took the child and bore him 
Through the woods away, 
And his people for their folly 
Weakened day by day. 

Truly, it would have been better, 
In the days of old, 
Had those people had the wisdom 
Their poor tongues to hold. 



10 



THE LEGEND OF INDIAN CORN. 

(ALGONQUIN.) 

N'Karnayoo. 

Long ago, when all was new, 
While the Indians yet were few, 
There was one who dwelt alone ; 
Fire to him was all unknown, 
And he lived on barks and roots, 
Nuts and other forest fruits. 

He grew lonesome, it is said, 
Weary of the life he led ; 
Barks and roots and nuts at length 
Failed to give him needful strength. 
Sick of all, one quiet day, 
Sleeping in the sun he lay. 

When he woke he saw in fear 
Something standing strangely near ; 
But his fear was gone when he 
Saw through half the mystery, — 
That the something was a fair, 
Beauteous girl, with long, light hair. 

ii 



Oft as he, whose heart was fired, 
Would approach her, she retired, 
Till he told her, in a song, 
That he had been lonely long, 
And besought her o'er and o'er 
To be with him evermore. 

Then she told him if he would 
Do her bidding as he should, 
Do it well and faithfully, 
She would always with him be ; 
And she looked so fair and good, 
That he promised her he would. 

So she led him by the hand 
To a dry yet grassy land ; 
Bade him two long splinters get, 
Dry as they had ne'er been wet, 
Hold them firmly, bending low, 
Rub them fast together, so. 

This he did ; a spark flew out, 
Set on fire the grass about. 
Fast the fire, reaching round, 
Wrought a black patch on the ground ; 
When in wonder, much amazed, 
He upon the stranger gazed. 



12 



Then she said, ' ( When sets the sun 
And the night comes sad and dun, 
Take me by my long, light hair, 
And, though I may seem too fair, 
Drag me o'er the singed ground, 
Back and forward and around." 

This he was full loth to do, 
And she bade him once anew, 
Saying, where he dragged her so, 
Something like to grass would grow, 
Which when fit for use would bear, 
Like a tuft, her own light hair. 

So his promise to obey 

Well he kept ; and to this day, 

When they see the silken hair 

On the cornstalk, — long and fair, — 

Know the Indians they are not 

By the wondrous one forgot. 



13 



GLOOSKAP AND MALSUM, 

AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND. 

Glooskap, the Good Principle. 
Malsum, {the wolf) the Evil Principle. 
Kwah-beet-a-sis, the Beaver. 
Ko-ko-khas, the Owl. 

I. 

MALSUM. 

How hateful has the sight of Glooskap grown 

To me who am his brother ; not alone 

Because he walks erect and is deemed fair, 

But also and especially because 

The voice of nature, present everywhere, 

Does magnify his goodness without pause ! 

Here in this sunny, flower-sprinkled wood, 

Have I not heard this morning every air 

Sing, "Glooskap ! Glooskap ! greatly wise and good !" 

As I have heard the falling waters sing 

When in their haunts I have been wandering ? 

I have had visions : even now I see 

How many hence his worshippers will be — 

14 



Will be, unless I steal his life away, 
And to do that shall be my aim to-day. 
His life is charmed ; but, even like my own, 
It has its bane, which shall to me be known. 

{Enter Glooskap.) 

malsum. 

Twin-brother Glooskap, every wind that blows, 

And rill that falls and pebbly brook that flows, 

And every bird that sings by day or night, 

All vocal things in shadow and in light, 

Extol thy name, as every mortal should ; 

All nature holds thee greatly wise and good. 

Our lives are charmed. I would they were likewise, 

For if they were I might be more like thee. 

Our lives are charmed. Herein the secret lies : 

Two things alone can fatal to them be. 

Confide to me what can be so to thine, 

And thou shalt know what can be so to mine ! 

Am I as safe, secure as thou in whom 

All nature joys as now in sun and bloom? 

glooskap. 

Malsum, thy words are pleasant to my ear ; 
But leave me by myself a moment here ! 

(Exit Malsum.) 



15 



GlvOOSKAP. 

How cunning would my brother Malsum be, 

Who sweetens speech with insincerity ! 

Well I remember our prenatal life, 

And how he chose — already fond of strife — 

To seek this world awry and, bursting through 

His mother's side, his suffering mother slew. 

Shall I impart to him what is my bane, 

Knowledge of that which is his own to gain ? 

Ah ! can it be that Malsum does not know 

'T is not in me that nature does rejoice 

From morn to morn with many-toned voice, 

With all her tongues throughout this leafy wood, 

With all her tongues wherever he may go ; 

But simply in the principle of good, 

Most active in my being? Evil one! 

I must not by his cunning be outdone. 

That which can do me harm I will not tell, 

But that to which I am invulnerable. 

{Enter Malsum?) 

GI.OOSKAP. 
Malsum, I can by nothing else be slain 
Than an owl's feather. What is thy sole bane? 

MALSUM. 

My brother, my twin-brother Glooskap, I 

Am not so safe ; but I can only die 

Struck by a fern-root. Many a one is nigh, 

And so at peace I neither walk nor lie. 

( Exeunt. ) 
16 



II. 



MALSUM. 



I have been tempted, wandering through this wood, 
Where all the leaves sing, "Glooskap, great and 

good," 
And all the airs that whisper in my ear 
So breathe his name that he seems present here, 
To take my bow and slay dull Ko-ko-khas ; 
For one of all the feathers that he has, 
Unwitting bird, will serve to put an end 
To that charmed life that does but me offend. 
Ah, Ko-ko-khas ! the best of birds art thou, 
Though ne'er before so much esteemed as now; 
Stir not, but mope ! thou hast an easy bough ; 
Mope, Ko-ko-khas ! the sun that blinds thine eye 
No more shall blind it; sweet it is to die. 

(Shoots the Owl.) 

How little are the great ! for Glooskap saith 
That even to him a feather's touch is death, 
This feather's touch, which shall be light as breath. 
Ah, Ko-ko-khas ! thy wisdom seemeth less : 
Thou didst not know what thou didst long possess, — 
Cure for the first and chiefest wretchedness. 
Oh, what a calm has fallen o'er this wood, 
Where now the leaves lisp, " Glooskap, great and 
good," 



17 



And not a frond is shaken in such wise 
That it escapes the beam that on it lies ! 
In this deep calm — which hideous is to me, 
Since, vexed by hatred, calm I cannot be — 
I may find Glooskap, as I would, asleep ; 
So let me seek him, and my purpose keep ! 

{Finds Glooskap sleeping and touches him with 
the feather.) 

GLOOSKAP (RISING). 

Malsum, thine act doth only anger me ; 
No good at all but evil lives in thee. 
Depart! for I thy brotherhood disown. 
Never by thee shall my sole bane be known. 

( Exit Malsum. ) 

GLOOSKAP. 

Now comes a struggle 'twixt the good and ill, 
And both are strong: but one shall have its will. 
Here by this brook let me resume my rest, 
And ponder what behooveth Glooskap best ! 
Was I not false to Malsum, so that he 
For my defect can look in scorn on me? 
It were not well — his questioning to hush — 
To say my bane is but a flowering rush. 

{Exit Glooskap.) 



18 



III. 

KWAH-BEET-A-SIS. 

Malsum, thou hast by Glooskap been deceived ; 
For Glooskap thou hast overmuch believed ; 
And I, who hide among the reeds, have heard 
What I can tell thee, Malsum, word for word ; 
But why should I, who have to work so hard, 
Advantage any without some reward? 

malsum. 

Whate'er thou wishest shall be given thee, 
If thou wilt tell what can advantage me ; 
So tell it quickly, and no mumbler be ! 

KWAH-BEET-A-SIS. 

Well, Malsum, hid among the reeds to-day, 

I heard thy brother, thy twin-brother, say : 

"Was I not false to Malsum, so that he 

For my defect can look in scorn on me? 

It were not well — his questioning to hush — 

To say my bane is but a flowering rush." 

Now, Malsum, for this service rendered thee 

So truly and with such alacrity, 

I — who have toiled in water and in mud 

E'er since creation spread its earliest flood, 

Ambitious from my oozy haunts to rise, 

As is a water-lily for the skies — 

Ask thee for wings which Glooskap me denies. 



19 



MAI.SUM. 

O most ungainly of ungainly things ! 

Oh, get thee hence! how wouldst thou look with 

wings? 
{Exeunt ; Kwah-beet-a-sis seeking Glooskap.) 



IV. 



KW AH-BEET- A-SIS . 

Glooskap, arise ! my presence tolerate ! 
For I have much of moment to relate. 
Give ear to me, if thou naught else canst give, 
And let me hence thy humblest servant live ! 
Here by this brook, among the reeds, to-day, 
When I was more than ever discontent, 
My lot being worse than unjust punishment, 
I heard thee, Glooskap, meditating say : 
"Was I not false to Mai sum, so that he 
For my defect can look in scorn on me? 
It were not well — his questioning to hush — 
To say my bane is but a flowering rush." 
And this I told to Malsum, for my head 
Was by my hope of gain bewildered. 
But my reward was Malsum's treachery : 
He promised much and but derided me. 
I come to make the best amends, and be 
For my disgraceful act amerced of thee. 



20 



GI.OOSKAP. 
Kwah-beet-a-sis, thou art beneath contempt, 
As infamous as awkward and unkempt, 
Who, liking not the water and the mire 
Wherein thou livest, — for thou dost aspire, — 
Of evil askest favor and in league 
With evil joinest in most foul intrigue. 
Thou dost aspire, but thou hast done thy worst, 
i/ook thou to Malsum, whom thou sought'st at first, 
And be with Malsum henceforth doubly curst ! 

{Exit Kwah-beet-a-sis.) 

GLOOSKAP. 

Give me thy root, O Fern ! give it, I pray ! — 
Glooskap must act as Malsum acts, to-day : 
Advance, — recede, — seek cover, — watch, — way- 
lay,— 
Pursue, — and when the time is opportune 
For striking, -strike. Oh, may that time be soon ! 
For Malsum must be stricken of this root, 
And with his life be ended his pursuit, — 
Unwearying destruction of the good. 
Awake, O Airs ! in every leafy wood, 
Awake, O Brooks ! and sing in Malsum's ear 
The happy songs that he is pained to hear ! 
And shine, O Sun ! on every hill and vale, 
On every slope, in every secret dale, 
So that his eye shall sicken of the sight, — 



21 



Himself the one great shadow in the light ! 
But I must seek him. First to yonder wood 
Of thickest pines, a darksome solitude, 
But not too dark for Malsum's mind, let me 
Direct my steps ! for Malsum there may be, 
Since he likes darkness who lives cowardly. 

{Enters the wood?) 

Shall I go farther? who, ah ! who is that 
That sitteth yonder, turning in the hand 
A flowering rush and looking down thereat? 
'T is Malsum ! ah ! my life cannot withstand 
One touch of what he holds. Let me be swift! 
And suddenly as sometimes through a rift 
Descends the sun, as noiselessly withal, 
Let me upon mine adversary fall 
And strike him with this weapon ! 

{Approaches Malsum from the rear and strikes 
him with the fern-root.) 

It is done ! 
Shine through these damp and darksome pines, 

OSun! 
In every nook and corner of the earth ! 
To all things give the brightness of new birth ! 
And sing, O Airs ! in every leafy wood : 
O'ercome has been the evil by the good ! 



22 



"THE MOURNFUL MYSTERY OF THE PAR- 
TRIDGE-WITCH; 

Setting Forth How a Young Man Died From Love." 

AN ALGONQUIN I/EGEND. 

N'Karnayoo. 

Two companions, happy brothers, 

Hunted once, in days of old, 
Through the autumn long and chilly, 

Through the winter long and cold, 
Till the winds of March returning 

Through the woods began to blow, 
Where the wild Penobscot rises, 

Down its rocky way to flow. 

Then they found their worn-out garments 

Needed what they could not do, 
For they had not woman's fingers 

That can make an old thing new ; 
So they turned their faces homeward, 

And the younger ran ahead, 
For in every homely duty 

It was he that always led. 

23 



Great was his surprise at finding, 

When he entered at the door, 
That a woman, very busy, 

Had been at the lodge before ; 
Garments had been nicely mended, 

Mats been swept and shaken clean, 
And a cheerful pot was boiling, 

Though no one about was seen. 



Said he nothing to his brother, 

And returning the next day 
Found the lodge again in order, 

And again did nothing say ; 
But when hunting on the morrow, 

Watched in hiding near the door, 
And beheld a graceful maiden 

Come and pass the threshold o'er. 



Then he entered, stepping softly, 

And she trembled, much alarmed ; 
But his pleasant words of welcome 

Soon her heaving bosom calmed ; 
And they sported long together, 

Here and there the pines among,— 
Sported happily like children, 

For indeed they both were young. 



24 



When the sun was nigh to sinking 

And the shadows all were long, 
Said the maiden : "I must leave you, 

(There's an end to every song) 
For I hear your brother coming, 

And your brother much I fear ; 
But I will return to-morrow. 

Look for me to-morrow here ! " 



So she went, and on the morrow 

Came again with laughing face ; 
And they frolicked in the woodland 

Till the day had run its race, — 
In the sunshine and the shadow 

Till the parting hour came, 
When he sighed : "Oh, do not leave me ! 

Here abide, and be the same ! ' ' 



But, receding, she made answer: 

"Tell your brother, nothing loth, 
What has happened, and it may be 

I will come and serve you both." 
Then, as down the far horizon, 

Out of sight the great sun fell, 
She departed from his vision — 

Whither, he could scarcely tell. 



25 



When she reached the lodge next morning, 

It was her delight to hear 
Words of welcome from the elder, 

Whom she did no longer fear. . . . 
Chores were done as if by magic 

As she quickly moved about, 
Till the elder to the father 

Let the long-kept secret out. 



Spake the father very angry : 

"All my life have I feared this; 
Verily, this charming creature 

Is a female Mikumwess ; 
Very cunning, very artful, 

Working evil here and there ; 
Witch or devil, call her either ; 

'T is of her you should be ware.' y 



And he spake so much in earnest 

That the brothers were afraid 
They had set their lives in danger, 

She so well could ply her trade ; 
So the elder, closely followed 

By the younger all about, 
Bound to slay her, in obedience 

To the father, started out ; 



26 



Sought her in the bosky woodland, 

Sought her by the brawling stream, 
With as little self-direction 

As one wanders in a dream, 
Till at last he found her bathing, 

Adding graces to a rill, 
When espying him she startled 

And ran up a little hill. 



Then he shot his ready arrow, 

And beheld, the wise men say, 
But a scattering of feathers 

And a partridge fly away ; 
Still believing he had slain her, 

To the father he returned, 
Straightway followed by the younger 

In whose bosom something yearned. 

"It is well and it was well done," 

The delighted father said, 
"Much I know of female devils 

That will turn a young man's head ; " 
But the younger, unforgetful, 

Ivonged to see her face once more, 
Sought and found her, and she met him, 

Full of kindness as before. 



27 



" Truly, 'twas not at my bidding 

That my brother shot at you ; 
Let us be the friends we have been, 

All our woodland sports renew ! " 
" Well I know 't was at your father's ; 

But it is the wisest way 
Not to mind the past or future 

But the things that are to-day." 



So, forgetting all their troubles, 

They made merry till the sun, 
Resting on a far-off hill-top, 

Told them that the day was done ; 
When she said : " You must be going; 

But whene'er you long for me, 
Seek me in this piny woodland ; 

I shall here in waiting be. 



" And remember what I tell you, 

Since I tell it for your sake, — 
Do not marry any other, 

Deadly would be such mistake. 
Though I am a witch or devil 

If your father you believe, 
I am not so cunning, artful, 

As a loved one to deceive." 



28 



This he heard, but not astonished ; 

For he had begun to see 
She was not like other women, 

But a deeper mystery ; 
And, though still his heart was beating 

With a love for her untold, 
He made light of all her bidding, 

For he waxed both brave and bold ; 



And returning to his father, 

Heard his father sternly say : 
11 I have found for you a woman ; 

Let the wedding be to-day ! " 
And he answered : "Let it be so ! 

Since you choose that I shall wed : " 
And the bride came quickly forward, 

And was straightway to him led. 

Four long days they danced and feasted, 

Danced and feasted o'er and o'er; 
But upon the fourth he uttered, — 

"I can dance and feast no more." 
Then he laid him on a bear-skin, 

Seized by sickness, heart and head, 
And when last the bride looked on him 

He was lying coldly dead. 



29 



Well the father knew the sickness ; 

But of it he never spake. 
Soon his native wood was gruesome,- 

Every bramble, bush and brake ; 
There were voices in its shadows 

That disturbed him night and day, 
And he moved with all his people 

Far and farther still away. 



[Charles Godfrey Iceland, in commenting on this legend, 
says: "This strange story recalls the Undine of -,1a Motte 
Fouqu6. There is in it an element of mystery and destiny, 
equal in every way to anything in German literature. The 
family secret, touched on but never explained, which ends 
in such a death, is, speaking from an artistic point of view, 
very skilfully managed. It must be borne in mind that in 
this*, as in most of these (Algonquin) tales, there are asso- 
ciations and chords which make as gold to an Indian that 
which is only copper, or at best silver, to the civilized 
reader of my translations. 

" There is a characteristic feature in this story superior 
to anything in Undine. It is the growth in the hero, when 
he knows the worst to come, of that will, or stoicism, or 
complete indifference to fate, which the Indians regard as 
equivalent to attaining m'teoulin, or magic power. When a 
man has in him such courage that nothing earthly can do 
more than increase it, he has attained to what is in one sense 
at least Nirvana. From an Algonquin point of view the 
plot is perfect. I have given this story accurately as it was 
told to me by Tomah Josephs, a Passamaquoddy Indian."] 



30 



THE CRY OF THE LOON- 



How weird to you, in the light of the moon, 

My little lads, is the cry of the loon, 

When quiet lies over valley and hill, 

And wood and mere are uncannily still ! 

But, listen, lads, there is something to know, — 

A tale oft-told in an age long ago, 

By wigwam fires that no torch can renew, — 

A tale that ends with the saying : "Kwemoo 

El-komik-too-ajul Gloocapal" — 

The loon is calling on Glooskap. 

Glooskap was God to the untutored mind 
Lit by the lights that in nature we find, 
That heard this tale and believed it throughout 
As something 't were sacrilegious to doubt; 
And once he saw, from the marge of a lake, 
A flock of loons o'er the wide water make 
Thrice for the land as in circles they flew. 
So runs the tale with the saying : ' ' Kwemoo 
Bl-komik-too-ajul Gloocapal " — 
The loon is calling on Glooskap. 



3i 



Then up the marge, in a line from the lake, 

He saw them come, who approached him and spake 

"Be near to us who have sought after thee ! 

Be near to us who thy servants would be ! " 

Nodding he said : "I will teach one and all 

What I shall know as a prayerful call." 

And so he taught what is heard, lads, by you; 

And hence arose that old saying: "Kwemoo 

El-komik-too-ajul Gloocapal" — 

The loon is calling on Glooskap. 

Glooskap was good ; and methinks you will find. 
If you, my lads, keep this legend in mind, 
That far-off cry, which is only a prayer, 
Will sound less weird in the pale, moony air, 
Or make less wild and less gruesome the night 
When all is still over valley and hight. 
But, howsoe'er it may be, lads, with you, 
Whene'er you hear that long cry say : "Kwemoo 
Bl-komik-too-ajul Gloocapal" — 
The loon is calling on Glooskap. 



32 



WEELAHKA, 



Many, many years ago, 
From the valley far below, 
Came an Indian maiden here, 
Saying, sad, with many a tear, 
"Could I sing, then I would be 
Dear to one who's dear to me. 



"He is fond of brooks and birds; 
He interprets all their words ; 
Stops, and listens to their song ; 
In his rapture, tarries long ; — 
O, if I could sing as they, 
He would wed me on this day ! ' ' 



Now the mountain Spirit heard 
Kvery murmur, every word, 
Of this maiden young and fair, 
Heavy-hearted, full of care ; 
Saw the beauty in her face, 
All her sweetness, all her grace 



33 



"I will give to her a voice 
That shall make all hearts rejoice ; 
But she must forever bide, 
Changed in body, at my side." 
This above her bending head 
To himself the Spirit said. 

Soon she found the turf whereon 
She had thrown herself was gone ; 
Soon she found she ceased to sigh, 
Wildly laughed, she knew not why, 
And in happy, careless mood 
Charmed with song the listening wood. 

This is how there came to be 
On the side of Ossipee, 
Said the wise men long ago, 
What we as Weelahka know. 
Brook or spirit, to this day 
It has stolen hearts away. 



34 



THE LEGEND OF THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 



Distant from her hidden home, 
Cavern deep with crystal dome, 



On a bright, autumnal day, 
Wandered once a tiny fay ; 



Fearing naught, till by and by 
Rose a cloud that, dark and high, 

Threatened, in its fall, to mar 
Wings so fine as fairies' are. 



Welladay! — She looked in vain 
For some shelter from the rain. 

Hers was but a narrow view ; 
What was she, poor thing, to do? 



Turned she here and turned she there ; 
Naught to climb was anywhere, 

Save a thistle, tall and straight, 
Which she gave her airy weight. 

35 



L,o! beside a little brook, 
Wimpling through its leafy nook, 

Saw she now a flower hold 
To the cloud its cup of gold. 

Happy fay ! she, like a ray, 
Lit upon it, and straightway, 

Close within its ample cup, 
Bade its petals fold her up. 

Fast and faster fell the rain ; 
Beat upon the flower in vain ; 

Close together to the last 
Held the flower its petals fast. 

When the vicious rain was o'er 
And the sun came out once more, 

Raised the fay — who well could ti: ank- 
Her true flower to royal rank ; 

Robing it, that all might see, 
None mistake, its high degree, 

In the bluest of the blue 
That a mortal ever knew. 



36 



THE CHALLENGE AND THE ANSWER. 
162L 

While the early bluebirds sing 
In the Plymouth woods of spring; 

While beneath a rosy ray 
Melts the ice in Plymouth bay, 

And the Pilgrim offers praise 
For the promised better days, — 

Like an arrow from the sky, 
All so sudden to the eye, 

Lights a brave in Plymouth town, 
Where he throws a quiver down, 

Turns him quickly thereupon, 
And is in a moment gone. 

Holds the quiver, it is found, 
Arrows with a snake-skin bound, 



37 



Sent to little Plymouth thus 
By the fierce Canonicus, 

As a token to all eyes 
That he hates and he defies. 

Bre the pleasant light of day 
Fades from peaceful Plymouth bay, 

Back to him of dark intent, 
Powder-stuffed, the skin is sent, 

For the wisdom is to show 
Heart of courage to the foe ; 

But in fear the palisade 
Stouter far by night is made, 

And a watch as ne'er before 
Set the homes of Plymouth o'er. 



38 



LYRICAL 



AGAIN- 



Again to these familiar hills 

My love has come with me, 
And like a light and careless girl 

She bears me company. 
Again for her these wildwoods wave, 

These winding waters pour ; 
Again I live, in all I feel, 

Our first, sweet summer o'er. 



Again she wears the jaunty cap 

She would not wear in town, 
And tied with silken bows she lets 

Her braided tresses down. 
For years a mother, still her face 

Its early freshness wears. 
Ah ! who would say that she had borne 

A hundred household cares? 



39 



Again I wait to raise the boughs 

Above her bending head, 
As when amid the tangled wood 

Her early steps I led ; 
Again to help her climb the steep, 

The rough and rugged way, 
As when a bashful lad I longed 

My hand in hers to lay. 



Oh, may she know that still to me, 

Among these summer hills, 
She 's praised by all their whispering airs 

And all their singing rills ! 
And may I many summers live 

Our first, sweet summer o'er, 
Ere light among these hills shall be 

Her step and mine no more ! 



40 



THE WAKENING, 



I rise from my couch and far away 
I see the light of the dawning day. 

There 's not a whisper about the hill ; 
All leaves save the poplar leaves are still. 

If I rouse my love who slumbers near, 
Will her looks be looks of sudden fear? 

I will touch her hand : she would not miss 
The tender charm of an hour like this. 

And soft and light as the stir I see 

In the poplar leaves my touch shall be, 

So that she may from her slumber rise 
As if the day had unsealed her eyes. 



4i 



THE WOOD-THRUSH* 



My absent dear, my darling, 
The wood-thrush kens, I trow, 

The feeling that is in my heart, 
Which very few may know. 

For Oh ! my dear, my darling, 

It sings a sadder song 
Than I have heard it sing before 

For many a summer long. 

My absent dear, my darling, 

My loneliness has found 
A singer in this gray-mossed wood 

Whose shadows deepen round. 

But oh ! my dear, my darling, 

The singer sings in vain ; 
For thou — thou dost not hear the song, 

And lonelv I remain. 



42 



WILLETTE. 

That little, witching, mountaineer, 
With what delight I met her ! 

Her looks, her ways, they make her dear 
I never shall forget her. 

I see her now, though far away, 
As last among the mountains, — 

As sunny as their sunny day, 
As sportive as their fountains, 

In sweet unconsciousness of all 

The charms that grace her childhood, 

Receiving, where her footsteps fall, 
The homage of the wild wood. 

The ferns that nod as she goes by, 
The leaves that clap above her, 

Are not less pleased, methinks, than I, 
Because, methinks, they love her. 

God bless her, little mountaineer, 

And may she keep forever 
That spirit that does most endear 

And is forgotten never ! 



43 



OH, TELL ME! 

I catch you, hold you, dearest dear, 

A captive on my knee ; 
I catch you, hold you, dearest dear, 

Now tell it all to nie ! 
Oh, tell me how the sunbeams fall, 

The flowers bloom, to-day, 

In that world of yours, 

Where the Spring endures 

And all is light and gay, 
My dear, 

And all is light and gay ! 

Oh, sweet to me your laughing glee, 

Your rippling, gurgling voice ! 
Oh, sweet to me your laughing glee ! 

I hear it and rejoice. 
Oh, tell me if you caught its tones 

From some melodious stream 

In that world of yours, 

Where the Spring endures 

And life is like a dream, 
My dear, 

And life is like a dream'! 



44 



How beautiful your deep blue eyes ! 

How soft their witchery ! 
How beautiful your deep blue eyes, 

That work their spell on me ! 
Oh, tell me if you caught their charm 

From that cerulean sky 

In that world of yours 

Where the Spring endures ; 

And then I '11 say, — Goodbye, 
My dear, 

And then I '11 say, — Goodbye! 



45 



IN THE SHADOW, 

The day is dark and dull ; 

The clouds are thick and low ; 
With sighs and sobs among the leaves 

The wet winds come and go. 

But 't is the thought of one 
Whose prattle charmed my ear, 

That to my heart its sadness gives 
And to my eye its tear. 

I kissed her forehead fair ; 

I kissed her fingers cold ; 
And then a bit of pussy-willow 

I gave to her to hold. 

She wanders far away 

In some sunshiny land, 
And there are flowers after flowers 

Inviting to her hand. 

She looks on them with wonder — 

O God ! am I to find 
She bears the bit of pussy-willow 

And leaves the flowers behind ? 



4 6 



LET >S GO A-MAYING, 



Sin no more, as we have done, by staying; 
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 

******* 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 
******* 
Yet we 're not a-Maying. 

— Robert Herrick , 1594-1674. 



Oh, be not like Corinna, 
Who slept the morn away ! 

But rise, and be a winner 
Of flowers, born of May, 
While yet 't is early day — 
'T is early day. 

Unlike her patient lover, 
I have not time to wait ; 

I cannot sing twice over 
My verses at your gate ; 
So rise, or else be late — 
Or else be late. 

The wings of Time beat faster, 
Or seem to, since the day 

When he — sweet lyric master - 
Bade her not long delay. 
So come, let 's be away — 
Let 's be away. 



47 



The day is not all ours 
Sweet pleasure to pursue ; 

So come, let 's gather flowers, 
And be content with few. 
I '11 give all mine to you — 
All mine to you. 



4 8 



ASSOCIATION. 



Last year, when I was here before, 
And looked this quiet landscape o'er, 
Through which without a murmur pour 

The waters of the Concord, 
I did not say what now I say — 
How beautiful what I survey ! 
How lovely as they wind away, 

The waters of the Concord ! 

Ah ! then the lass that charms my eye, 
The lass so simple, sweet and shy, 
Had not been here, a wand'rer by 

The waters of the Concord ; 
She had not left her magic here, 
A glamour in this atmosphere, 
Nor looking once on them, made dear 

The waters of the Concord. 



49 



AMONG THE DAISIES* 



Oh, has she forgotten that sweet summer day 
When roving together we paused by the way 
And I decked her with daisies and kissed her? 

How often since then when, with thoughts all my 

own, 
By sunshiny fields I have wandered alone, 
I have looked on the daisies and missed her ! 

A presence that nothing of grace was denied, 
A tall, slender figure, she stood at my side, 
With the light of my love falling o'er her. 

How large were her eyes as on me they looked 

down! 
How long were their lashes ! How glossy and brown ! 
There was none to be chosen before her. 

How glinted the sun through her hat's rim of lace 
And mingled its kisses with mine on her face ! 
It is sad to be roving without her. 

Ah, welladay ! welladay ! if it can be 
That she has no thought of that sweet day or me 
When the fields are all daisies about her. 



5o 



WE WERE PLAYMATES. 

Come, sit beside my fire with me! — 

A quarter of a century 

Has passed since we together sat, 

Dear lips say, on the chimney mat 

And watched the evening fire until 

The sandman came our eyes to fill. 

A quarter of a century — 

How much this means to you and me ! 

To those whose love still helps us bear 

Our daily burden, daily care, 

But for whose words we might not know 

That we were playmates long ago ! 

Come, sit beside the fire with me ! 
And let us fancy it to be 
The self-same fire that filled our eyes 
With childish wonder and surprise, 
And watch it till we seem to hear 
The same old sandman drawing near ! 
Forget this evening — for we can — 
The sober woman, serious man ; 



51 



Revive, in all their simple joy, 
The laughing girl and careless boy ; 
That we may feel what others know 
That we were playmates long ago ! 



52 



SONNETS. 



MY FATHER. 

This is my consolation : though no more 
As in remembered summers I shall be 
Among these hills with him, I feel that he, 
Who knew them long and in his bosom bore 
Great love for them, will seek them o'er and o'er 
And oft among them bear me company, 
So much of his clear vision giving me 
That I shall find more beauty than before 
In yonder purple mountains, yonder lake 
Now golden in the sunset, and, hard by, 
The woods that whisper, Peace! Beloved 
spirit ! 
He did not all the beauty here forsake ; 

From what is fair on earth men do not die — 
'T is part of what in heaven they inherit. 



53 



TO ADDIE FRANCES SHAW* 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER BIRTHDAY. 

My sister, my dear sister, gone before, 
Across the river, — that mysterious tide 
That flows between us, shadowy and wide, 

Which I myself must soon or late pass o'er, — 

I send you greeting, wishing you once more 
A happy birthday where you now reside 
Forgetting not the home from which you died, 

Forgetting not the love for you I bore. 

Now once again the violets have come 
And all the air is full of melody ; 
The day is like your latest birthday here : 

I weep not, for I feel about your home 
Beyond the river fairer flowers be 

And sweeter songs delight your listening ear. 



54 



FIRST SPEECH. 

First speech is like the sudden blossoming 
Of trees, itself the blossoming of thought, 
As sudden : truth to us this morning brought, 
When our dear daughter, three years old this spring, 
In words well-chosen spake full many a thing 
Which late as yester morning we would not 
Have said that she could utter if not taught 
By having it repeated, as birds sing 
Their songs — without the slightest variance — 
Over again to her. How suddenly 
Has she become a sweeter spray to us ! 
With what surprise to our delighted sense ! — 
Her speech has come with subtile fragrancy, 
And in a way that seems miraculous. 



55 



APRIL 26, J895, 



I cannot think it is in mockery 

Of my sad looks that Nature smiles to-day ; 

I cannot turn my face from hers away, 
Because in hers no sign of grief I see. 
To mourn is vain : not so to hope can be, 

And she would have me hope and hope alway ; 

So my cold hand in her warm hand I lay ; 
She, mother-heart, knows what is best for me. 
'T is well for me to hear the song she sings, 

To see the look, the radiant look, she wears : 
The hope in her does hope in me beget. 
Tears solace somewhat, but are idle things 

Beyond a certain measure ; and ill-fares 
The life that fosters nothing but regret. 



56 



TO BENJAMIN F, LEGGETT. 

ON READING "A SHEAF OF SONG." 

Leggett ! your verse is beautiful to me, 
Because to me the simple and sincere 
Are beautiful. To you, who do not fear 

To trust your thought, however fine it be, 

Whatever its originality, 

To simple forms and words we daily hear ; 
To you, who would not if you could appear 

To feel more than you do feel, — gratefully 

All lovers of the natural in art 

Should give applause : the time will come again 
For a return to that ; and such as you, 

Who, on the sleeve, prefer to wear the heart 
And in its forms and language speak to men, 
Are doing more than it was thought to do. 



57 



TO PASTOR FELIX. 



I am with thee, though in this distant mart ; 

I joy with thee, that she thou hold'st so dear 

Now lies so easy that the heavy fear 
No longer with its burden bows thy heart. 
I thank our God, whose servitor thou art, 

That thou no longer through the bitter tear 

In dark foreboding seest thy home appear 
As in the shadow that no light can part. 
Oh, my dear friend ! thy vigils have been long, 

And thou hast need of quiet and repose; 

Now mayst thou sleep, and thus thy strength 
regain ! 
Rest thee awhile ! and then in thy sweet song, 

Which, as a brook in leafy summer, flows, 
Make unto her thy bosom still more plain ! 



58 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE STOPPING OF THE STAGE, 



At last our weary senses know 
How quiet are these summer hills ; 

Our horses, reeking long ago, 

Now pause to drink where, cool and low, 
The wayside brook its fountain fills. 

O grateful pause ! wherein we see 
No changing in the landscape round, 

No shifting of its scenery : 

What restful immobility 
The eye has in all objects found ! 

O grateful pause ! wherein we hear, 

In calm expansion over all, 
The whisper of the pinewood near, 
And, lightly to the listening ear, 

The brook among its pebbles fall. 

But now each horse has drunk, and he 
Whose looks but one desire reveal 

Climbs to his seat, and soon we see 

The shifting of the scenery 

And only hear the rumbling wheel. 



59 



FROM THE HILL. 



I left the noisy stage at noon, 

There at the thorp, two leagues away ; 

And, though it was a garish day 
And I could not arrive too soon, 

Walked hither, for the simple sake 

Of the delight that I should take 
In passing through the quaint old town 

Without the noise of wheel or hoof ; 

Such quiet lay on every roof 
On which this shaggy crest looked down, 



The stage went on apace, and soon 
Its heavy rumble died away, 
And there was naught to rouse the day 

From its repose of hollow noon 

Save, now and then, the sudden caw 
Of some bold crow and, though I saw 

Nor bird nor perch, the tinkling song 

Of some shy thrush. It seemed as though 
It were a charmed town, and so 

With noiseless feet I walked along. 

60 



Two leagues, by many a house and barn, 
By many a window, many a door, 
By many a sunlit threshing-floor 

Wind-swept as is an open tarn, 

I came, and till I reached this spot 
No human form my glances caught; 

No one was at the wayside well, 
At any window, door or gate ; 
The town to me was desolate, 

And silent as a silent bell. 



And now I look o'er it, who see 
The long white way by which I came, 
The way I Via Pacis name, 

And beautiful it is to me ; 
Brown, shadowed homes in many a row, 
A picture softly etched below. 

No sound from it can reach my ear ; 
It will remain a charmed town 
So long as o'er it I look down 

From all the peace and quiet here. 



61 



LUXURIES. 



Again I walk these woodland ways, 

A noisy season after ; 
Again I feel their cool and calm, 

And hear their leafy laughter. 

In town, the idle luxurist 

On his divan is lying : 
My senses here have luxuries 

The best of his outvying. 

Better than horticultural growths 

That sicken in their vases, 
These simple wilding flowers that lend 

These winding ways their graces. 

Better than some exotic song 
From lips of languor falling, 

The singing of these pebbly brooks 
And birds above me calling. 

My luxuries not only please 

But strengthen with their beauty : 

With lighter step I turn from them 
To labor and to duty. 

62 



TW) NATURE LOVERS. 



If they were here, among these hills, with me, 
Then perfect here would my contentment be ; 
I long to-day for their society. 

How much to me their absence has denied ! 
O, that they could have laid their oars aside 
And left awhile their galley to the tide ! 

I know their love of nature equals mine ; 
I know they see in nature a design 
To raise us up to that which is divine. 

I know they hold that God with wise intent 
Created all, o'er which well-pleased He bent, — 
That beauty is no simple accident ; 

That unto them of quickened ear and eye, 

It does His love and goodness testify : 

How dull the sense that does this creed deny ! 

And so I would that they were here to-day, 
To walk with me this winding, mossy way, 
Wherein alone my noiseless feet delay, 



63 



Assured that theirs would be the peace that fills, 
On this fair day, the voices of these rills 
And all the gentle whispers of these hills. 

But some may from the tasks assigned them, rest 
While others must be doing His behest — 
Come, sweet content ! I know His will is best. 



64 



OUR LOVED ONES* 



What gentle ones have passed away 

Since last we tarried here, 
To whom these hills in their array 

Of summer leaves were dear, 
To whom these woods were beautiful, 
To whom these rills were musical, 

For many and many a year ! — 
We look, we listen ; but too far 
For word or sign our loved ones are ! 



What shadows in this sunlight fall 

By not an object cast ! — 
Projections of the mind when all 

Its thoughts are of the past. 
The bird that sings above our way 
Is singing of a bygone day, 

And all that charmed the last 
Sweet ramble of our loved ones here 
Comes sadly to our eye and ear. 



6 5 



Oh, that they could return again 

As in the olden days, 
Ivike pilgrims from the haunts of men 

To these sequestered ways, 
Who felt, amid the beauty here, 
That heaven must be very near, 

Just hidden from our gaze ! 
Oh, that our mournful voices might 
Recall them to our longing sight ! 

But should we wish them here? Have they 

Not fairer scenes than these ? 
Reach not the heavenly hills away 

Through deeper silences? 
Are not the woods of heaven more calm? 
Have not the airs of heaven more balm, 

And softer melodies? — 
Have they not found, in full release, 
Eternal sunshine, rest, and peace? 



66 



TO A BOY. 

Would Ben be dear to Nature, he 
Must quiet in her presence be. 

To such as come with careless rout 
She does not pour her treasures out. 

To such as ne'er her peace molest 
She gives, and freely gives, her best. 

She loves her lover all his days ; 
She loves him for his quiet ways. 

She has for his quick eye and ear 
What none beside may see or hear. 

In gifts that charm his every sense 
She shares with him her affluence. 

So Ben will learn among these hills, 
Beside these long-familiar rills, 

To quiet in her presence live 
That she to him her best may give ; 

That he may feel that he is dear 

To her great heart that throbs so near. 

67 



UNTENANTED. 



The lake is calm below; 
The hills are calm around ; 
The sighs of pines, that come and go, 
Are here the only sound. 

For silent are the sheep 
That near me huddled lie, 
As silent as the clouds that sleep 
Amid the stiller sky. 

The quietude becomes 
So sad about the door, 
It seems the hush of mourning homes 
Ivies still the threshold o'er. 

My step be lighter near ! 
Uncovered be my head ! 
And let me with the pines I hear 
Be thoughtful of the dead ! 



68 



LAKE SQUAM. 

Squam is very fair to see 

When it lies at rest ; 
But it must forbidding be 
When the winds disturbingly 

Fall upon its breast. 

On a gentle summer day, 

I beheld its charms ; 
O, how peacefully it lay, 
Smiling in the noontide ray 

And the forest's arms ! 

There was nothing anywhere 

To disturb the hush 
That was deepened, here and there, 
By a whispering woodland air 

Or a singing thrush. 

If its legend — has it none? — 

Was inspired when it 
I^ay so quiet in the sun, 
Then its legend must be one 

For a child's ear fit. 



6 9 



But if when some headlong air 

Broke its mirror bright 
And its couch became a lair, 
Rose its legend, then beware, 
For that must affright- 



70 



MY LADY BIRCH. 



The birch, most shy and ladylike of trees. 

— Lowell. 



You are indeed a lady, 

My tall and slender birch ; 

And none will find a fairer one 
Wherever he may search. 

My lady birch, I wonder 
What does my presence give 

To one so very delicate, 
So finely sensitive. 

I only know there never 
Seem darker stains on me 

Than when I come and look on you 
And all your whiteness see. 

My lady birch, I love you : — 
And yet, can love be right? 

You are so very chaste and fair, 
So fitly veiled in white ; 

You look so like a spirit 
Beneath the moon and sun ; 

You are so purely beautiful ; — 
A lady, wholly one. 



7i 



IMPRESSIONS OF SUNSET. 



I long to see among the hills again 

The splendors I have seen. There sunset seems 

In peace and hush, as I have seen it oft, 

To give to me some glimpses of that world, — 

Its banded vales and mountains glorified, — 

We feel is round us when our souls are moved ; 

To make it less a mystery and more near 

Than we have felt, and to surround the world 

Wherein we live, like a pure atmosphere. 

And so I long among the hills again 

To see what I have seen, — the sunset glimpse 

Of what awaits me near, which I shall gain 

By stepping little further into life, 

As one who leaves the vale in shadow, finds 

The hills above it overflown with light. 



72 



THE BONNY DOON, 

I paused beside the Bonny Doon 

At midnight and alone, 
And heard it tell the listening moon, 

In saddest undertone, 

The loss and sorrow by it known. 

" What though in spring my birks grow sweet, 

In summer, shade my tide ; 
What though the years unchanged repeat 

Their magic at my side, — 
No more to me the bard returns 

Who sang my banks and braes ; 
No more the lips of Robert Burns 

Are vocal in my praise." 

"Oh, bonny Doon ! " said I, "take heart, 

And learn this truth of me : 
Immortal as his heavenly art 

The bard himself must be. 
Though never to your banks and braes 

His wandering step returns, 
The sweetest singer in your praise 

Is still your Robert Burns." 



73 



Yet, as before, beside the Doon, 

At midnight and alone, 
I heard it tell the listening moon, 

In saddest undertone, 

The loss and sorrow by it known. 



74 



AT THE TOWER OF FONTENAY. 



A voice comes out of the past to me, 
As I pause by these silent walls, 

What time on them in solemnity 
The hush of the sunset falls ; 

And in that voice that is soft and low- 
Is the pathos of love alway ; 

It tells of Anne of the long ago, 
And the Tower of Fontenay. 

Ah ! then it is that each gentle air, 

As it wanders these ruins by, 
Kisses the walls and the vines they bear 

And departs with its saddest sigh ; 
Ah ! then it is turns the winding Loire 

With its tenderest look away ; 
And mine the thoughts of all nature are 

By the Tower of Fontenay. 

I hear her sing, and I see her dance ; 
I behold her bewitching charms, 



75 



That won for her in the court of France 

The reception of open arms ; 
But oh ! a grief in my heart is born, 

As I think of that fateful day 
When she was borne to that court at morn 

From the Tower of Fontenay. 

And ever the voice that is heard by me, 

As I pause by these silent walls, 
What time on them in solemnity 

The hush of the sunset falls, 
Whispers the wish that is in my heart — 

And the wish will be there alway — 
That she had dwelt from the world apart 

At the Tower of Fontenay. 



[At the Tower of Fontenay the beautiful and unfortu- 
nate Anne Boleyn " grew up with the children of her host 
* * * and was the favorite and delight of all. * * * She 
danced with a grace that made her a little wonder to those 
who crowded to see her execute the intricate figures of the 
day with her cousins, who endeavored, without envy, to 
emulate her acquirements. Her voice possessed remarka- 
ble sweetness and a pathos that was peculiarly attractive. 
Kven at a very early age it had a charm that troubled all 
hearts."] 



7 6 



ASHHURST — A HOME. 



Ashhurst has a restful quiet, 

And I seek it oft; 
Few the feet that e'er pass by it, 

And their tread is soft ; — 
Shadows of the ash-trees tall 
On its mossy dooryard fall. 

Ashhurst has a cosey study 

Just above its door ; 
You may see the windows ruddy 

Ere the day is o'er, 
When the thrush is in the wood 
And the west is rosy-hued. 

Ashhurst has a singer living 

In its pleasant shade ; 
One to whom is Nature giving 

Kvermore her aid ; 
Simple is the life he leads — 
Few his wants as are his needs. 



77 



Ashhurst, it is vocal ever 
With his tuneful words, 

Sung so easily that never 
More so sing the birds ; 

All its leafy dooryard trees 

Catch his airy melodies. 

Ashhurst for me ever gladly 
Hangs its latchstring out ; 

May I never come and sadly 
Ivooking all about, 

Find no latchstring in the door 

And a shadow all things o'er ! 



7 8 



THE WAYSIDE ELMS. 



A leafy luxury. — Keats. 



When pass I to and fro the mill, 

Amid the noon of day, 
When dull with haze lies every hill 

Seen southward from my way, — 
How pleasant are these elms that throw 

Their shadows over me ! 
They give, beneath the sunny glow, 

A leafy luxury. 



The weaver longs her loom beside, 

The smith his anvil o'er, 
To tarry by some wood-rimmed tide, 

In paths of moss, once more. 
Who doubts that they, in passing here, 

Forget awhile their lot, — 
Too grateful for what good is near 

To sigh for what is not? 



79 



Though here is not the breath of balm, 

The lapse of idle lin, 
I something feel of cool and calm 

These airy shadows in. 
Blow, wind of summer, lightly blow 

The branches over me ! — 
How wood-like in the noonday glow 

Becomes a single tree ! 



80 



A MOMENT OF SUNSHINE. 



The sunshine at this moment falls 
So brightly on my study walls, 

They seem to have been wrought of gold, 
Iyike those of Incan palace old. 



I lay my toiling stylus by — 
No Inca was more rich than I. 



I sit, like him, in golden shine, 
And all his splendid state is mine ; 

I look on walls all gorgeous, rich 

With leaf-wrought arch and statued niche, 

And gazing from my windows, see 
Gardens of gold surrounding me. 



81 



I have, like him, a wealth untold, 
My birthright ina" Place of Gold." 



bright illusion ! leaving me 
The dull, the dim, the shadowy ; 

No leaf-wrought arch, no statued niche, 
No walls, no gardens, gorgeous, rich ; 

But, humbler now than e'er before, 
Surroundings that may please no more. 

1 take my stylus up anew, 

And like a drudge my task pursue ; 

But I have known what 't is to sit 
In splendor for a monarch fit ; 

To be as rich as any one 

Of the "descendants of the sun," 

A moment, — but that moment seemed 
Ivife-long, as if I had but dreamed. 



82 



THE DANDELION. 

Though 't is praised by many a poet, 

By its homely name I know it ; 

Though its garment is so gay, 

It will always seem to me 

Living in a humble way ; 

For, with real humility, 

It would come and sit of yore 

Just beside my kitchen-door. 

I am minded once again 

Of the simple fact that then 

None of all the other flowers 

In the dooryard seemed to me, 

Who would pass with them long hours, 

So familiar — if that be 

Just the word — with each and all 

Of that household I recall. 

Yes, familiar, if I say, 

In an unobtrusive way. 

It was welcome when it came ; 

For it sat beside the door, 

Like a ruddy, round-faced dame, 

To be social — nothing more: 

Not for gossip, for its heart 

Was too warm for such a part. 



83 



I have learned since then how wide 
Is its home — by riverside, 
Over hill and thorough vale, 
On the highway, in the lane, 
Almost everywhere — and pale 
Grow the colors — shown in vain — 
Worn by others when they dare 
With its garment theirs compare. 

Still, though queenly it may sit 
To some minds observing it, 
It will always seem to me, 
Though 't is met in divers ways, 
Of the same humility 
That it was in early days, 
When it came and kindly-eyed 
Sat my kitchen-door beside. 



84 



WE COME TO GIVE THESE LITTLE CHILDREN. 

(READ BY GEO. W. BICKNELI,, D. D., 
CHILDREN'S SUNDAY.) 

We come not, Lord, before Thine altar, 

For newer tokens of Thy love ; 
For fresher waters from Thy fountains, 

And blossoms from Thy fields above. 

We need not more than Thou hast given 
Whereby Thy boundless good to see — 

We come, O Lord ! to make apparent 
The fulness of our trust in Thee. 

We come to give these little children 

Of whom Thy tender love is told ; 
Remembering how came the mothers 

With children in the days of old. 

Ah ! they are more than birds and sunbeams 
That fill our homes with song and light, — 

The sweetness of whose tender presence 
Is round us in the day and night. 

85 



We give them, Lord, that in Thy bosom 
The budding of their years may be ; 

And wilt Thou take them, as we give them, 
A token of our trust in Thee? 



86 



IN MEMORIAM: 
J, B. 

JANUARY 23, 1897. 

I sat in a house of mourning 

On the open side of a hill, 
And I heard the pastor saying 

What my eyes with tears did fill. 

'T was a pure, white day in winter, 
And the man that there lay dead 

Had fallen beneath his burden 
With an aureole round his head. 

And as I bowed and listened, 
The voice of the wind I heard, 

That sighed and moaned, nay, that uttered 
Full many a sorrowful word. 

I cannot tell which touched me 
The deeper or said the more, — 

The plaintive voice in my presence, 
Or that at each window and door. 

87 



But I shall always remember 
How Nature lamented the loss 

Of one that had learned her patience 
And in silence borne his cross. 



88 



1 THE AFTERTHOUGHT, 



My little boy had sought my room where I 

Was busy with my books ; 
I saw the light that kindled in his eye, 

I saw his roguish looks. 



I knew what he had come for, and I knew 
Who kissed his forehead fair — 

I could not well my quiet task pursue 
With him at frolic there. 



But I was loth to bid him run away, 

His little playmates find, 
Till books and papers in confusion lay 

Before me and behind. 



Then in my hand I took his hand and led 

Him silent to the door, 
And yielding to the moment's impulse said, 

" You must come here no more." 



8 9 



He went away, with a reluctant look 

That I remember well ; 
Soon after, when I had resumed my book, 

Its leaves to ashes fell. 



The fancy that had pleased me passed away, 

Ere it in words was caught ; 
And heavily upon my bosom lay 

The burden of a thought. 

What if my boy should seek my room no more? 

What if I should not see 
Him cast again his baubles on its floor 

To play at peep with me ? 

Oh, what were then the stillness of my room 

And all the house beside? — 
Would I not wish that I had bade him come 

Or I with him had died? 



90 



THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER, 

Yes, they tell the truth who say- 
She 's the flower of the town ; 
I — I saw her yesterday 

When the sun was going down, 
Milk the kie 
While I stood by, 
In the barn beside the way. 

She is graceful, lithe, and tall, 

And her fair looks are more fair 
Since you find she is of all, 
All her beauty unaware ; 
She has not 
Of self a thought 
That you would not modest call. 

It was a delight to see 

One so lovely, one so fair, 
Give herself ungrudgingly 
To such unbefitting care ; 
But the charms 
Of her bare arms 
Were not known except to me. 



9i 



Shall I tell her how she looks? 

What might be her walk in life? — 
Here, where flow the crystal brooks, 
Where the gifts of God are rife, 
She has found 
That joys abound, — 
Views are pictures, flowers are books. 

Here, these simple lives among, 
She has kept her native ways ; 
Pure in heart, forever young, 
She has lived contented days : 
In her ears 
For eighteen years, 
Thrush and bobolink have sung. 

Shall she now herself behold 

In some polished poet's song? — 
Better in some fountain cold 
Which the rushes grow along. 
Better far 

Her sweet looks are 
That of them she is not told. 

Still, I cannot help the thought 
How in urban church and hall 
By her beauty would be caught 



92 



The admiring eyes of all ; 
Nor how much 
For its soft touch 
Would her dimpled hand be sought. 

It may be I am in love ; 

I am willing to confess 
Sentiment that is above 
What is common tenderness; 
That I feel 
What few conceal — 
More than does mere liking prove. 



93 



A SUMMER INCIDENT. 



She had a fine and delicate, 

A quick, imaginative mind, 
And she was tall and fair, with all 

The graces of young womankind. 

She stood before me, wonder-eyed, 
With looks that now my mem'ry haunt, 

While her gray sailor uncle told 
The story of the corposant. 



So graphic were his gestured words, 
She walked the wind)^ deck at night 

And saw the fiery meteor hang 
On yard and spar its ball of light. 



To her, as to the scared that quit 
The King's ship for the foaming sea, 

The meteor was an imp of hell 

That played its pranks most frightfully. 



94 



I saw her large eyes larger grow 

As more and more grew her dismay ; 

I wished to lead her, gentle-voiced, 
From what seemed all too real away ; 



To speak such words of tenderness 
As might discover something more ; 

But other ears and eyes than hers, 
How vain they made the wish I bore ! 



95 



THE COUNTRY STAGE DRIVER. 



You cannot find a man to-day 
More hearty in his word or way 
Than he who drove, some years ago, 
The village-rousing tallyho. 



I mean the typic driver, who 
The straight way to your good will knew ; 
Who cracked his whip and cracked his joke, 
And called by name the country folk ; 



Who told you more in one short ride, 
If you and he sat side by side, 
Than half a dozen men could tell, 
Or you could e'er remember well; 



Who knew each home his long route passed, 

Its history, from first to last, 

If it had ups and downs in life, 

If shirked the man or worked the wife ; 



9 6 



Who taught a moral, told a tale. 

And much that turned a red cheek pale ; 

Was doctor, lawyer, prophet too, 

For he could say what all should do. 

I miss him here among these hills 
Whose circuit now his memory fills, 
Where, pressed against his burly side, 
I felt his strong pulse through the ride. 



Big, honest fellow, with a grasp 
That held your hand as in a clasp, — 
Recalling faces scarcely seen, 
And keeping many a memory green,- 



Peace, peace to him ! who, four-in-hand, 
Did not his team alone command, 
But, cheery- voiced, as you may know, 
Bach genial heart on his tallyho. 



97 



JOE OF KATAHDIN- 

When winds of winter fiercely blow 
O'er dreary wastes of sleet and snow, 
Then comes to me the thought of Joe, 

Whose home is near Katahdin. 
'T is always an inspiring thought ; 
For though most humble is his lot, 
He stands 'mong men as high, I wot, 

As stands 'mong hills Katahdin. 

I know him as a man sincere, 

Whose mind has been for many a year 

Uplifted by his living near 

And gazing on Katahdin ; 
Right in his ample brow — to me 
As rugged as his hill's — I see 
His measure of nobility 

Impressive as Katahdin. 

No rougher hands than his are felt ; 

But what a heart through them does melt ! 

He nobly wears his leather belt 

As wears its spruce Katahdin. 
I see him now, and on his breast 
By no religious doubt deprest, 
His beard, in wintry whiteness, rest, 

Like snow-drifts on Katahdin. 



98 



But he is poor as he is old ; 

And now that wild winds, bleak and cold, 

Are blowing 'round his trembling fold 

Down o'er which looks Katahdin, 
I, who have known in summer days 
His kind and hospitable ways, 
Should gild his hours with genial rays 

Like sunshine on Katahdin. 

And so with this poor bit of rhyme, 
I send him, mindful of the time, 
The rigor of his northern clime 

That caps with snow Katahdin, 
What shall give warmth to him afield 
And comfort by his fireside yield : 
My heart to him is not congealed 

When ices block Katahdin. 



99 



BURNS. 



His right to a place among- the greatest poets in 
Europe being no longer in dispute, to speak of him still as 
the Ayrshire Bard is almost as dull an affectation as to 
follow his own example and call him Rob, or Robin. — John 
Service. 



Now no more the Bard of Ayrshire — 

Once a better name denied — 
Whom the lords of Edinboro' 

Thought to humble at their side ; 
But the sweetest of all singers 

That the world has ever known, 
With a fame for which those nobles, 

Could they now, would give their own. 

Now no more the Bard of Ayrshire, 

But the poet of the heart, 
In whose songs of love and pathos 

Nature leaves no room for art ; 
Who has shown the lowly peasant 

Has as fine an eye and ear, 
Has as keen a sense of beauty, 

As the wigged and powdered peer. 



ioo 



Now no more the Bard of Ayrshire, 

But the sharp-tongued satirist, 
Shaming now the titled idler, 

Now the pulpit dogmatist ; 
Hating pride, with honest hatred, 

Cant and all hypocrisy ; 
Hating caste and holding manhood 

As the sole nobility. 

Now no more the Bard of Ayrshire, 

But the poet dear to all 
That regard the tenant only, 

Not his cottage or his hall : 
Loving justice, life is better 

Since his tuneful work began ; 
For 't is God-like to consider 

Not the raiment but the man. 



101 



WISE AND TESTY* 



I had some converse the other day 
With that old blacksmith across the way. 

"Or sledge or anvil a man must be, 
For none can be both," he said to me. 

And then he hammered a little bit, 
And paused to see how I looked at it. 

I saw the wisdom that I should own ; 
But bent on mischief, and that alone, 

I begged to differ and said, " y T is true 
Some men are anvils and sledges too ; 

Sledges at home and anvils away, 
Pounding and pounded, they live their day." 

I struck the iron when it was hot, 
And I was sure of the fun I sought ; 

But soon the sparks flew so thick and fast 
That we were both all ablaze at last. 



102 



Pounding and pounded, no man could say 
Which was the anvil or sledge that day. 

And when we parted, it seemed to me 
That we had lost all our dignity. 

The words that vexed us, may God forgive ! 
I did not know I was sensitive. 

You laugh ; but mark ! it is time ill-spent 
To argue merely for argument. 



103 



JOHN SHAW— J738. 



John Shaw, the English taverner, 

Who liked not hours late, 
Would bid all folk begone from his tavern, 

And put up his shutters, at eight. 

No matter who the folk were, 

If they were high or low, 
He snapped his whip o'er all who tarried 

Till they were fain to go. 

But better the punch he vended 

Than that of other men, 
And many who left him in passion 

Came back to his punch again. 

So good were the limes he used, 
So good was the pine-apple rum, 

He needed no bush for his tavern — 
The pennies were sure to come. 



104 



Now one who was a law-maker 

Was of this taverner told, 
And he wished to taste, for he was a bibler, 

The famous punch he sold. 



He took his friends to the tavern : 

Uncommon folk were they ; 
But as soon as eight by the old town-clock 

They were bade to haste away. 



"Oh! urge it not, mine host, I beg you," 

The wise law-maker cried, 
"And do in the case of certain persons 

Some certain laws provide ! " 



Outspake the loud-voiced taverner, 
For a man of courage was he, 

11 My good sir, you are a law-maker 
And should not a law-breaker be. 



"If you and all others, I give you warning, 
Leave not forthwith this room, 

You will go from it as sorry and wet-shod 
As ever you went to your home. 



105 



"For my good old servant, Molly, 
With her mop and bucket waits near : 

He comes to be off while he is sober 
Whoever it is comes here." 



As rude to us as may seem the outward, 

The inward was good indeed : 
How often in life have we censured the manner, 

For we knew not of the need ! 



Are we not moved, as the wives who thanked him, 
To weave his name with these flowers : 

Praise for the courage that never failed him ! 
And praise for his early hours ! 



[John Shaw opened a tavern in the Old Shambles, Man- 
chester, in 1738, and began at once to close it at eight o'clock 
in the evening, and if any persons tarried after this hour, 
the methods of ejectment were as stated in the lines. He 
was heartily thanked by the women folks for so rigorously 
carrying out his regulation as to the hour of closing, and 
so popular did he become among the men folks that a club 
known as the John Shaw Club was formed, of which he was 
chosen president, which existed up to i860, and may be, for 
all I know, in existence now. He seta good example, and 
I think his memory is entitled to the tribute I pay it. If 
my lines are not " pointed with a moral," I think they will 
suggest one to every reader. ] 



106 



,4£5 ARY 0F CONGRESS 

liiiiL. 

015 821 749 



